


Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by undercovercaptain



Series: Speak Of The North! A Lonely Moor [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Christmas future fic from "The End of Childhood" universe, Christmas Fic Exchange, F/M, cuteness overload hopefully, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercovercaptain/pseuds/undercovercaptain
Summary: Christmas time—a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time we know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely. And of all the Christmases Stannis Baratheon had experienced, surely this one was the merriest.





	Tidings of Comfort and Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as my Victorian AU, 'The End of Childhood.' Hope you guys like it!
> 
>  (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf and Ol'Charles Dickens)

When the sun had set upon that Christmas Eve of 1847 the clouds had already gathered, and just a little before eleven o’clock the snow began to fall steadily from the sky. A cascade of sugar to dust the earth; part of the thickening darkness that surrounded the estate, the winter night itself descending on Storms End, layer by layer. The night was now quite frosty, all ebony shadows and the silver of snowy slopes glinting in the moonlight; a myriad of stars were shining over the silent fields; here and there tall trees stood up with snow powdering their branches and the wind whistling through their leaves.

            Sansa Baratheon liked to hear the wind whirling about at night. She liked that feeling of superb cosiness when snuggled down amongst soft blankets and pillows, wrapped up in the arms of her husband, knowing that that icy coldness could not get at her. As he slept, Mr Baratheon’s hand lay across her stomach; his chest pressed to her back; his breath whispering against her neck; his lips barely touching her warm skin. Sansa entwined her fingers with his, smiled sleepily, and closed her eyes. But she could not sleep. She listened with rapt attention as the church bell chimed the hour, its ringing toll flooding over her, drawing Sansa out of herself. At its familiar sound she became even more aware of where she was, if that were possible: part of Storms End, its surrounding lands, married to Mr Baratheon, and happy.

            On a sudden impulse, Sansa opened her eyes and carefully extricated herself from her husband’s tender embrace; his arm slid away from her; fingers splayed and searching; a disgruntled murmur upon his lips. For just a moment or two, Sansa regarded his sleep-softened face, illuminated by the now low burning fire. She leant forward to give him a sweet kiss upon the cheek. Mr Baratheon stirred slightly at the gentle touch of her lips, but soon fell back into a deep slumber; though his fingers still dreamily reached out for her.

            Pulling her gaze away from him, Sansa swiftly went to stand by the nearest window. She drew back the heavy curtains and peered out of the casement, a chill instantly drifting towards her through the glass; cold air, snow fresh air that no one had yet breathed. She fancied herself the only person in the house awake, her attention drawn to the ever growing wash of moonlit whiteness that covered the grounds of Storms End. The sight before her held a certain otherworldly fascination, which Sansa did not care to resist—oh, how she dearly loved the snow! She shivered slightly and wrapped her arms around herself, but was otherwise content. Christmas was close at hand. The old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry, to pass gently and calmly away. Christmas time! A man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is not roused, in whose mind some pleasant memories and associations are not wakened, by the recurrence of Christmas.

            Indeed, seasonable tokens were about. Lustrous berries shone in every corner of Storms End: earlier in the day, Sansa and Shireen had been busy daintily sticking sprigs of holly into every nook and sconce, every window crevice and upon every mantelpiece; as if they were sticking them into the buttonholes of Mr Baratheon’s best tailcoats. They had dressed the whole house with the utmost taste and discernment, with the assistance of Mr Baratheon when a person of great height was particularly needed. Together, Sansa and Shireen had then wedded those thick-set scarlet clusters with the branches of the black-berried ivy, the overall effect being quite splendid—so much so that even Sansa’s usually reserved husband remarked upon it with a certain degree of pride and a pleased smile as he kissed both their cheeks in thanks.

            Now, as she watched the snow’s continuous descent upon the trim lawns and sculpted bushes of the gardens below, Sansa pondered the magic of Christmas—for there seems to be a magic in its very name. It is the season of merriment, open-heartedness, and hospitality. Indeed, Storms End seemed now to be packed to the rafters with Sansa’s relations, their arrival having come only a few days prior. Furthermore, the past week had been quite a flurry activity for the Baratheons of Storms End: Mr Baratheon, his new bride, and his daughter had all descended upon Felwood to peruse the lavish profusions that bedecked the shops of the nearby town. All the food orders had already been made and by now delivered, and yet Sansa had sweetly persuaded her husband into calling for the carriage so that they might explore the Yorkshire town’s charming cobbled streets. Her arm snugly tucked into her husband’s, and with Shireen’s small mittened hand in hers, Sansa had eagerly peered into nearly every shop window they had passed. As she gasped and exclaimed merrily at the assortment of currants, raisins, spices and candied peel on display, Mr Baratheon had smiled so indulgently at her; which caused many a townsperson to stare after the happy trio, quite aghast at this seemingly uncharacteristic display of good cheer from the usually solemn master of Storms End.

            The poulterers’ shop had been brimming people, Mr Musgood hardly having a spare moment from writing down orders, and the fruiterers’ were radiant in their glory. There had been great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the streets. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed onions shining in the fatness of their growth. There were mountains of pears, precariously piled, clustered high in blooming pyramids; bunches of grapes, dangling from hooks like jewels; mounds of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves; there had been Ribston Pippins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellowy tones of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner. Darling Shireen had beamed so happily when her father had placed a bountiful package of ruddy apples in her mittened hands; that evening, they had sat round the superbly lit fire, Mr Baratheon carefully coring and slicing up perfect little morsels of fruit to be shared between the three of them.

            In the current moment, Sansa absentmindedly traced the downward path of the falling snow with a finger—the glass windowpane cold to the touch. She smiled and sighed happily at the remembrance of all she had seen during their visit to Felwood: the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the pleasant blended scents of tea and coffee so grateful to the nose. She recalled her husband’s sudden, and deep laugh of amusement when she had giddily clapped her hands with delight at the sight so many figs and plums in their highly decorated boxes; looking so wonderful and good to eat in their Christmas dress. Sansa recalled how hot her cheeks had flushed at such a laugh, and how soon Mr Baratheon had leant forward to kiss her brow; his gloved hand brushing an errant curl from her face as he did so.

            She recollected how tightly she had held onto little Shireen’s hand as a sudden flurry of customers bustled past them; so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day that they tumbled up against one another at the shop doors, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, some leaving their purchases upon the counter in their haste, only to come rushing back to fetch them. Mr Baratheon had hastily placed himself between them and the hurrying townspeople; his countenance had turned quite stern then, his tall stature appearing all the more imposing because of it. But then he had turned to face Sansa and Shireen, his brow furrowed, his eyes searching: concerned that they might have been knocked or bumped by the festive bustle. When at last they had weaved their way back to the carriage, Mr Baratheon had led the way with Sansa’s hand clasped tightly in his and Shireen’s in hers. During the journey home, her husband had held her close; his arm wrapped around her waist, their gloved hands entwined and resting in Sansa’s lap. Upon Mr Baratheon’s lap Shireen had sprawled herself in her exhaustion—a soft smile upon her dosing face. It had truly been a day well spent.

            “I do not like waking up without you next to me,” came a hushed voice from behind her; soon followed by two strong arms embracing her and a bed-warm face pressed to her neck. “You’re cold. Come back to bed.”

            Sansa turned to face her husband, one hand coming to rest upon his broad shoulder, the other reaching up to caress his cheek. Mr Baratheon leant into her touch: the brightness in her blue eyes was so charming to behold, that on her exclaiming, “But dearest, the stars—the _snow_!” Mr Baratheon could only manage a “Yes,” in response, but seemed to prefer to see the wintery night and the beautiful stars in the light of her lovely, joyful countenance, to looking out of the window.

            The blanket of sleep still somewhat upon him, Mr Baratheon bent his head and nuzzled that delicious spot where the graceful curve of his wife’s neck met the sweet shell of her ear. He liked to touch her very much, Sansa realised. Indeed, ever since they had revealed their hearts to one another all those months ago, Stannis Baratheon had craved and sought her embraces like a man drowning.

            Persuaded by his soft and tender touches, Sansa was led back to their bed—the snow and stars now hidden behind the thick, damask curtains. As she settled herself snugly into his welcoming arms, her husband let out a contented murmur; in bed, Mr Baratheon always liked to keep his arms around her. Often, whenever he awoke before her, Mr Baratheon would admire Sansa’s sleeping form rather than make any marked effort to return to his own slumber: how her fiery red hair would sometimes cover her cheek, ready to be brushed aside by his loving fingers; how her skin always seemed so pearly pale, even against the whitest of bed-sheets. In his bolder, more passionate moods, Mr Baratheon would then kiss her and stroke his hands down her body until she returned to wakefulness with a soft, gasping sound, like someone saved from drowning.

            Before his marriage to Sansa Stark, Mr Baratheon had always prided himself on how promptly in the day he set about doing all the necessary estate business such a grand old house as Storms End required. Since his wife, however, he found himself spending far more time sequestered away within the welcome confines of their bedchamber. Only the most pressing of business would now persuade him to leave the soft, loving embrace of his young wife. Yes, it would have to be _very_ pressing indeed.

            “Are you excited for tomorrow, my darling?” whispered Sansa, only the light of the almost dying fire keeping her face from being cast in total darkness.

            “Yes,” murmured Mr Baratheon sleepily.

            “You do not sound it, my love.”

            “I am. Now, go to sleep.”

            Cheekily, Sansa pressed a small, cold foot to the warm flesh of his calf, earning a startled yelp from her husband and a narrowing of his dark blue eyes; the latter, thoroughly at odds with the tender way he still held her. Sansa’s own eyes sparkled with barely concealed amusement.

            “What did I do to warrant that?” Mr Baratheon inquired sulkily.

            “Your lack of festive cheer.”

            Her husband huffed, his hold upon her tightening marginally.

            “Oh Stannis, you still love me, don't you?” His wife pouted, fluttered her lovely eyes and pressed a sweet kiss against the underside of his jaw.

            “Of course I do—I can hardly believe…my darling, you simply being my wife has been the greatest of gifts,” his hand reached for her belly then, his fingers stroking the soft curve of it. “To have you, Shireen, and now the baby—dearest, I cannot even begin to express…” Sansa silenced him with a kiss.

            “Not even the most perfect of snow covered, starry nights could be as wonderfully dear to me as you, Stannis Baratheon.” She kissed his lips again and smiled, “Did you know that?”

            “I might have had an inkling, Sansa Baratheon.”

            When morning finally arrived, and Christmas Day with it, the Baratheons and their guests had all descended to the drawing room, where planted in the middle of a great round table, towering high above their heads, stood that pretty German novelty, a Christmas Tree. A multitude of lights were burning on the green branches; everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright decorations. Little Shireen, and Sansa’s youngest brother Rickon, stood open mouthed in front of the splendorous tree: its lights seeming to rise higher and higher before them, like the stars in heaven. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, her brother Robb and her father balanced fiddles upon their knees; ready to begin playing as soon as all the presents had been opened. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. Festive feeling was up, the candles burned bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang all throughout the room.

            Soon the ringing of bells called them all to Stormcross church, and away they went, flocking through the twisting, snowy country lanes in their best clothes and warmest coats, with their cheeriest faces. When the church-party returned for lunch, Bran and Arya Stark produced small sprigs of mistletoe from their pockets, tempting their elder sister and Mr Baratheon to kiss under them—a proceeding which afforded flushed cheeks from both parties, before they chastely, but sweetly pressed lips to the sound of clapping hands and hearty cheers.

            At last, dishes were set out, and the Lord was thanked. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mr Baratheon, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it into the goose’s breast; but when he did, and when the long expected gush of sage and onion stuffing issued forth, a murmur of delight arose all round the table, and even Mr Stark, usually so measured in his behaviour, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and cried Hurrah!

            There never was such a goose. Mrs Stark declared that she didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked; Sansa beamed proudly at such praise. Its tenderness and flavour, size and quality, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by all its delicious accompaniments, including apple-sauce and roast potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole merry party. And yet, somehow, there was still space in their bellies when a stout servant staggered in with a gigantic pudding, a sprig of holly upon it. At its deliverance, and the subsequent pouring and lighting of brandy, there was such a laughing, and shouting, and clapping of hands, as can only be equalled by the applause with which Mr Baratheon received upon finding the silver sixpence inside. As he proudly held up the shining coin for all to see, Mr Baratheon’s eyes met his wife’s. Surrounded by those she loved most, Sansa marvelled at the loveliness of this Christmas Day—but surely, the loveliest thing of all was the broad, joyous smile upon her husband’s face when he looked at her.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out again to the Victorian Father Christmas himself, Charles Dickens for giving me a wealth of inspiration and period information - 'A Christmas Carol', but also his short stories.
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- "Filberts" is an alternative name for hazelnuts used in the Victorian period.
> 
> \- "Ribston Pippins" are an old Yorkshire variety of apple which dates back to 1707. The original tree is reputed to have been grown from a pip brought from Rouen by Sir Henry Goodricke to Ribston Hall, near Knaresborough. Through the 1800s it was grown commercially and was a popular dessert apple for its rich, intense aromatic flavour and keeping qualities. 
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


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